


Just Leaving

by withoutaplease



Series: Boyfriend Sam [5]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader survives a hunt gone sideways, but in the aftermath, her life with Sam doesn’t seem so simple anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Sam x female reader  
> Word Count: 3750  
> Warnings: Brief mention of blood/torture, fluff, smut, angst  
> Author’s Note: I’ll just leave this here and see myself out.

               In the dream, it’s your fourteenth birthday.  You are an intelligent and respectful young woman, the kind often described by teachers and mentors as an “old soul.”  Your father’s younger sister, on the other hand, was the classic teenaged rebel in her youth, always sneaking out, always running with the rough crowd, never interested in what anyone over the age of 20 had to say.  She’s not much different as an adult, and consequently, the two of you have little in common.  This doesn’t stop you from being inseparably close, much to your mother’s chagrin.

               Today, for your birthday, your aunt has taken you to a tattoo parlour.  As she flirts with the artist and forges your mother’s name on the consent form, you stare at your feet. You’re far more nervous than you let on, not only because you know this is going to hurt, but because if your parents find out, they’ll murder you both.  You’re not even sure you want the damned thing, except it’s exciting to break a rule for once, and getting a tattoo to match your aunt’s seems like an induction into an exclusive club.  A rite of passage. At fourteen, you didn’t know how right you were.

               In the dream, you relive the memory of getting up into the tattoo artist’s chair.  You blush furiously as you lift up your shirt, revealing your bra, and your aunt holds your hand and smiles reassuringly as the artist sprays the skin on your lower left ribcage with alcohol.  Your heart races as he places the rough design, a kind of pentagram, and when he looks to you to see if it’s satisfactory, you immediately look to her.  She nods to you, you nod to him.  Then you take a deep breath and close your eyes as he turns on the gun, willing yourself to relax as the dentist’s-drill whine makes you cringe. 

               The needle makes contact with your skin, and at first, it isn’t as bad as you feared.  No worse than a cat scratch, really.  You breathe deliberately, inhaling and exhaling your anxiety away, and your aunt smiles proudly at your bravery.  In your memory, that was the worst of it, over. 

               But this is a dream, and it’s not over by a long shot.  Gradually, the pressure from the needle grows stronger, almost burning, and you try to hold still but it hurts enough your eyes are watering and you’re starting to make little whimpering sounds in your throat.  You look to your aunt again, and she’s still smiling, but the smile isn’t reaching her eyes anymore.  The needle digs deeper, and her hand on yours ceases to be a comfort and becomes a restraint, instead.  You cry out, but she doesn’t let go and the artist doesn’t stop.  She holds you down while he carves into you, the needle now as big and sharp as a knife, dragging over and over against the thin skin of your ribcage as you scream and struggle to get away.  Then she’s laughing at your tears and her nails dig into your arm like talons and you look at the face you love and see only malice there, only evil.

               “Why?” you sob, searching her face for any hint of compassion.

               She smiles coldly.  “I tried to warn you,” she says, pointing with her chin down to the mess the tattoo man has made of your abdomen.  Carved across your ribs, in angry, bloody letters, you read: _STAY THE HELL AWAY_.  You look back at her in horror, and she simply blinks at you, eyes shining black.

               You wake up screaming.

               Sam’s by your side in an instant, the book he was holding but not reading dropped to the floor and kicked aside.  “Hey, hey, hey,” he says quickly, kneeling next to the bed and clasping a hand on either side of your face as your eyes fly open.  “You’re okay.  We got you out.  You’re okay.”  He takes one of your hands in his, and presses a kiss to your cheek.  “You’re okay.”

               You struggle to catch your breath, disoriented.  You quickly run your hand over your abdomen and find the skin there smooth and unbroken. You’re not broken anywhere, that you can tell, and as your eyes come into focus you realize you’re in Sam’s room, Sam’s bed, Sam’s arms.  “Is this real?” you ask, looking up into his face above yours, his eyes red and tired and so full of relief.

               He smiles and covers your lips with a fraught kiss that says _thank God, you’re still here, I didn’t lose you_. “It’s real,” he says.  And, like a mantra, “You’re okay.”  He presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes.  “You’re okay.”

* * * * *

               The way Sam tells it, it happened in the blink of an eye.  The vampire intel was bad, obviously – the warehouse was occupied by a small cadre of demons looking to keep themselves off the radar, and the townspeople didn’t disappear to be bled, but possessed.  The one who got the drop on you was probably on guard duty, probably made the three of you as soon as you arrived, and probably took you out first because you were the easiest target.  When she couldn’t possess you, she settled for crumpling you like a beer can against the wall of the building.  Before Sam could reach you, another half dozen or so flooded out from the back doors.  There was no time for exorcism and there were no survivors.  Sam carried you to the car, broken but still breathing, then Dean burned rubber and got his angel friend on the phone.  You held on until you reached the bunker, Castiel brought you back from the brink, and then you slept for a day and woke up terrified.

               “He’s a handy guy to have around,” you joke, and Sam gives a small snort of laughter.  He holds a glass of water to your lips, and you take it out of his hand impatiently.  “I feel fine,” you say, before downing the water in one go.  “I could use a toothbrush more than anything.” He takes the glass from you and sets it on the bedside table, then sits next to you at the edge of the bed.

               “You weren’t fine,” he says, all traces of his smile disappearing.  “You would have died, and it happened so fast, I . . .”

               “I don’t even remember,” you interrupt. “But it sounds like I’m the one who fucked up.  My head wasn’t in the game, and I was followed, and you saved my ass.  So, let me thank you, and leave it at that.”

               He’s quiet for a moment, then he looks away and says, “You wouldn’t have been there at all if it wasn’t for me.”

               You bring a hand up to his face, and stroke his cheek. “Let’s not do that, okay?” you say. “We’ve been over this so many times. I made a choice, and I knew what I was getting into, and you’re not going to take that choice away from me now just because I made a mistake. All right? Don’t martyr out on me. I’m fine.  It turned out fine.”

               He sighs and places a soft peck on your lips. “All right,” he says. “Just one thing.”

               “What’s that?” you ask.

               “You don’t remember anything about the warehouse?” he asks, and you nod in agreement. “Then what were you screaming about when you woke up?”

* * * * *

               After the third night, you don’t cry anymore when the nightmares wake you.  You don’t complain, but Sam knows you’re suffering, knows you haven’t had a solid night’s rest since the warehouse, and he tries to make sure he’s always there next to you any time you sleep.  He’s there when you jolt awake, ready to wrap you in his arms, or to kiss you to distraction, or to give you a lecture on some obscure piece of lore so boring you can’t help but be lulled away again.  It feels good, taking comfort from him this way, but it also feels uneasy.  Like you’re another victim who needs protecting, instead of the protector you’ve worked for years to become.  Like you’ve been compromised.  Like you’re a liability.

               Then, a few weeks later, the next mission comes up, and you’re not invited.  “Benched” is the term Dean uses when you try to argue.  He’s not wrong; your training’s gone to hell since you stopped sleeping, and deep down you know you wouldn’t trust yourself, either.  Still, it chafes.

               “I don’t like it,” you tell Sam when he comes to say goodbye.

               “I know,” he says, rubbing your arm as he holds you, “but we’ll only be gone a day, we just need to check this out.  It’ll be a cakewalk.”

               “That’s not what I mean,” you tell him.

               He looks at you carefully. “I know that, too,” he says, with sympathy.  “I wish it wasn’t like this.”

               “What am I going to do?” you ask.  “I’m not getting any better.”

               “You just have to give it time,” he says, pressing a tender kiss against your lips before letting go of you.  “Nothing else you can do right now.”  He steps away from you, somewhat reluctantly, and picks up the bag of gear he’s got slung on the back of his chair.  “I have my phone.  I’ll call you if anything goes wrong.  You’ll be all right alone tonight?”

               “It’s one night,” you say, dismissively.  “I’ll live.”

               He nods. “See you later, beautiful,” he says, and despite yourself, you smile.  Then he walks away, and leaves you to your thoughts.

               That night, when the dream wakes you, there’s nobody there to reassure you.  You have to will your heart to quit racing all by yourself. Lying there in Sam’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, the sound of every creak and tick and groan of the bunker magnified by your solitude, you realize what it’s going to take for you to get past this.  It’s a long night of agonizing over it, but you make up your mind.

* * * * *

               When Sam returns late the next day, he finds you sitting on his bed, surrounded by little stacks of your folded clothes.  “You didn’t call,” you say, trying to keep your expression neutral, “I take it that means everything went okay?”

               He’s hovering in the doorway, taking in the scene, forehead crinkled with confusion.  “Went fine,” he says cautiously.  “Did you sleep okay?”

               “Fine,” you lie, looking away, picking up a bundle of t-shirts and shoving them into your duffel. He watches you in silence for a minute while you pack up your things and avoid his eyes. 

               Eventually, he clears his throat.  “Are we going to talk about this?” he asks evenly. 

               “We can,” you say, without stopping what you’re doing.  “My mind’s made up, though.”

               He comes into the room and grabs your arm gently, stopping you.  “Hey,” he says, offering a soft and careful smile when you meet his eyes.  “Let’s talk about it.”  You sigh, and all the resolve you spent the night building up drains away.  He takes a seat on the edge of the bed next to you and rests his hand on your thigh.  When you say nothing, he starts instead.  “Tell me why you’re packing,” he says.

               “You know,” you answer, staring at the floor.

               “You’re going home,” he says, glancing over at you, “I don’t know why you want to.”

               “It’s not that I want to,” you say, “I have to.”

               “You don’t,” he says, with a slight shake of his head, “Not at all.  But I’d like to know why you think you do.”

               Tears well up in your eyes, and you silently curse them. “I’m really no good to you here anymore,” you say, looking up, trying to blink the tears away. “Not if I can’t fight.”  He catches your chin in his fingertips and turns you to face him, a teardrop falling from each of your eyes despite your efforts.

               “Now who’s ‘martyring out’?” he says, and there’s heat rising off the words. “No offense, but I didn’t bring you here because I needed the extra backup. I brought you here because I want to be with you. “

               “And what, Sam?” you reply, frustrated, fresh tears brimming.  “I let you protect me? I wait here alone for days at a time while you and your brother are off to war, wondering if you’re ever coming back?” You get up from the bed, grind the heels of your hands into your eyes, and pick up another piece of clothing to fold.  He watches you.  “That’s not me. That’s not a life I want.”

               “So you’re giving up,” he says.  It’s not a question. 

               “It’s not like that,” you say.  “Something is broken in me right now.  I have to figure out how to fix it.”

               “And you can’t do that with me?” he says.  “I can help you.  You just need to let me.”

               You shake your head.  “I think I need to do this on my own,” you say, gently.  “Besides, I’m tired,” you continue, when your answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him.  “I need a new change of clothes.  And I need my car . . .  and my mom . . . I need to figure out what I’m doing with my apartment.” You raise your hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just need to _go_ , at least for a bit.”

               He stares dejectedly for a moment, then stands up and brushes a quick kiss across your forehead. “Do what you have to, then,” he says in a small, resigned voice.  He starts to leave the room, and you call after him.

               “Sam,” you say, and he turns to look at you, his expression defeated. “I’m not leaving you.  I’m just . . .” 

               “Leaving,” he finishes curtly.  He nods, mostly to himself, and gives you a quick, tight-lipped, mirthless smile.  He walks out, closing the door behind him.

* * * * *

               A couple of hours later, Sam knocks at the door.  “It’s your room, you can come in,” you say, not unkindly, from the foot of the bed, where your bags are stacked and you’re on your phone searching bus schedules.  He steps into the room and sits down next to you.

               “Let me drive you back,” he says, glancing over at the screen, trying to make peace.  You shake your head.

               “That’s crazy,” you say.  “That’s a day round trip.”

               “I don’t care,” he says.  “I’ll do it.”

               You take his hand and smile sadly.  “I know you would.  I don’t want you to.  This is hard enough as it is.”

               “And I want to make this easier for you because . . .?” he says with a little, playful grin.

               You sigh.  “Because the sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back.”

               “Is that true?” he asks, and there’s no anger in it. “Do you even know?”

               You put your phone down and take his other hand. “I don’t know how long.  But I am coming back.”

               He drops your hands and takes hold of your face, pulling you in for a sudden and dizzying kiss, taking your breath away, briefly banishing all thoughts of leaving.  He pulls back, and your lips try to follow his, thirsty for more.  “Stay one more night,” he murmurs, sweeping your hair away from your face and looking at you plaintively. “I’ll take you to the bus station in the morning.”

               If you’d had any inclination to say no, the rush of heat that floods between your legs demands otherwise.  “One more night,” you say, nodding, and a grin tugs at one corner of his mouth as he moves in to kiss you again.  He hits your lips with mouth open and tongue pushing for entry, and you yield with a soft moan as his fingers wind their way into your hair.  It’s a kiss that pulls out all the stops; tip of his tongue tracing the outline of your lips, teeth nipping and pulling at the bottom one, mouth enveloping your tongue and sucking on it.  He has your breath heaving before he even begins to touch you anywhere else, and when he moves to roll you down onto your back, pressing his thigh between your legs as he lands on top of you, you’re lost.  Your bags fall to the floor.  You don’t notice.

               He breaks away from your lips and stops to watch your face for a second as he presses his leg harder into the seam of your jeans, smirking when your mouth opens in a gasp.  When your eyes squeeze shut, he dips his tongue again, licking from the roof of your mouth to your upper lip.  He moves to lather your neck, keeping close enough to hear the way your moans increase in volume as you roll your hips against the pressure of his thigh.  Just as you’re winding up, he shifts, and then it’s not his leg you’re grinding on but his cock, hard and straining in his jeans.  He grunts right into your ear as he pushes himself against you, and the sound of it hits you right about where his erection does. 

               “Come for me,” he whispers, voice low and rasping.  Lacking your words, at the moment, you answer with a whimper.  He rolls his hips again and grabs your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat.  “Go ahead,” he encourages, and then he’s grinding into you, over and over while his mouth draws marks onto your neck, giving you something to remember him by.  And, God help you, he feels so good, and he knows your body so well, and you do come, rolling and quaking in ecstasy without having removed so much as your jacket. His lips return to yours as you simmer down, bringing you back with soft, tender kisses, and that’s when he starts to undress you.  

               Appreciatively, and unhurriedly, he peels away the layers, until you’re laid out on his bed in nothing but your panties, already saturated. He stands at the foot of the bed, eyes slowly sweeping over you, as he starts unbuttoning his own shirt.  He stares so long and silently as his clothes fall away that you blush self-consciously. “What is it?” you ask, finally.

               “Just taking pictures,” he says with a smile, bending to push off his jeans.  Then he’s standing there in nothing but his boxer-briefs, and you take a few pictures yourself.  At least, you do until he starts absently palming his erection over his shorts, and then that’s the end of your concentration.  Your patience, as well.

               “Come here,” you insist, and his smile takes a turn for the wolfish as he gets up on the bed and crawls over you. Then your lips and your hips slot together again, and it’s right, this, the warmth of his chest pressed into your breasts, your legs and tongues tangled, hips pumping in tandem.  This part is right, and you silently promise in the language of sighs and moans and fingernails dug into shoulders that you’ll return to him, that this isn’t goodbye.  He answers in the language of grunts and gasps and lips surrounding nipples that you’d better come back, that he won’t have it any other way. 

               You reach to free each other from your underwear, and he pulls a condom from his nightstand drawer.  He lies on his back to put it on, then you’re straddling him, sliding down onto him, gasping as he fills you and watching as his lips part in a gasp, too.  Your fingers clasp his hands and your pussy clasps his cock and you will yourself to move slowly, to make this last, but it’s easier said than done when he’s looking up at you like you’re a goddess with eyebrows furrowed and sweat beading up on his forehead.  But you do, this time, you do move slowly, because this time it’s got to count.  His hips rise to meet you and you push back, your clit grazing against his pubic bone, your wetness making a mess out of both of you.  You press on this way as long as you can stand, sweat mingling, grunts and moans combining into a chorus of want and desperation, until it’s one thrust too many and your movements start to falter as you come apart again.  He lets go of your hands and grabs you by the hips, picking up the motion where you leave off, dragging you back and forth against him and around him as your legs go slack and your pussy tenses up, again and again. You let go, let him take control, and he draws your orgasm out longer than you thought possible, leaving you panting and whimpering as he follows you over the edge, his low, rumbling moan coming out like a growl.  He lets go of your hips, and you collapse onto him, chests pressed together as your heartbeats slow in unison.

               You stay that way a long time this night, lying still with your ear against his chest, silently listening to his heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of his breaths, while his fingertips sweep sonnets along the skin of your back. For as long as you can, you will the morning away.

* * * * *

               You spend every second you have left encircled in Sam’s arms while the bus is boarding, until finally, the driver’s only waiting on you.  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he says, smiling for you as you pull away from him.

               You smile back.  “I’m coming back, Sam,” you say for the hundredth time.  “You won’t even have time to miss me,” you add, with no idea whether or not it’s true.  He kisses you now, a long, lingering kiss that ignores the impatient glaring of the driver through the windshield.  When it’s done, a heaviness floods your chest, and you fight back a sudden, overpowering urge to tell him _I love you_ before you go, knowing it’s true, it’s been true for a long time already, but it’ll only make this harder.  “Stay alive out there, Sam,” you say instead, starting to climb the steps onto the bus.

               “You stay alive out there too, Buffy,” he says with an unsteady grin.  Then he gets into his car and drives away, not waiting to watch you leave. 


End file.
